


Sketching

by Esti7310



Series: Dante's POV [1]
Category: Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe - Benjamin Alire Sáenz
Genre: Dante POV, Fluff, M/M, dante realizes things, maybe angst? who knows, rewrite of a scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esti7310/pseuds/Esti7310
Summary: Dante sketches Ari and realizes a few things about his best friend.(The scene from the novel where Dante goes to Ari's house and draws him, but from Dante's point of view)





	

It had been days since Ari showed up at the pool. He hadn’t called, either, and I didn’t want to call him because I was always the one to call him, and it felt like there was some sort of unspoken rule saying it was his turn to call. Then again, maybe we’d somehow made our own unspoken rule that I was the caller and he was the answerer.

I didn’t always get the rules with Ari. I still worried about breaking them. Usually I broke rules on instinct, but something about Ari made me more careful.

But then, after a few days, the phone rang, and I picked it up and heard Ari’s voice. It was like hearing rain hitting the sidewalk after a hot, dry month.

“I’ve been in bed,” Ari said apologetically when I asked him where he’d been. “I caught the flu. Fever, bad dreams, that kind of thing."

“What were the dreams about?” I asked him.

He paused. “I can’t talk about them.”

 _Surprise, surprise._ “Okay,” I said. “When can you go out again?”

“Well, I feel okay, but my fascist mother has me under house arrest. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Could I come over there?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Ari without hesitating. “Come whenever.”

“Can I come now?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon.”

I didn’t totally get Ari, but he really did like being with me. Even if he seemed distant when we were together, he always seemed to want me around. I liked that. I liked that a lot.

I wondered what to bring over. I picked up a few novels, but they all seemed too heavy (both in content and in weight). I finally shoved a book of W.S. Merwin poems into my bag.

I was halfway out the door when I realized I wanted to draw. I was in that sort of mood. I didn’t really plan anything, I just grabbed my sketchbook and pencils and slid them into my bag with the poems.

I made some small talk with Mrs. Mendoza, turning on my charming voice for her, and then I escaped upstairs to Ari’s room, hoping he was awake and in a good mood. His door was open, so I just paused in the doorway and glanced around inside. He was sitting up in bed, and he smiled when I came in. That was a good sign.

“Hi,” I said.

“You forgot your shoes,” he answered.

“I donated them to the poor.”

“Guess the jeans are next.”

I glanced down and realized that this pair was probably more holes than fabric at this point. “Yeah,” I said. We laughed, and I think it was the best sound I’d heard in days.

“You look a little pale,” I observed.

“I still look more Mexican than you.”

My stomach sank. I didn’t want to have this conversation now. “Everybody looks more Mexican than I do. Pick it up with the people who handed me their genes.”

“Okay, okay,” said Ari, smiling again, and his smile wiped away any awkwardness. “So you brought your sketchpad.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to show me your drawings?”

“Nope,” I said quickly. I hadn’t really made a plan, so I improvised. “I’m going to sketch you.”

“What if I don’t want to be sketched?”

“How am I going to be an artist if I can’t practice?”

“Don’t artists’ models get paid?”

“Only the ones that are good-looking,” I said. I regretted it the second the words were out of my mouth. It seemed like it had crossed a line, like I’d invited us to look at his body. It almost felt mean, too, because really, he was pretty good-looking, and I didn’t want him to think he wasn’t.

“So I’m not good-looking?” he said.

“Don’t be an asshole,” I answered, trying to smile. I wanted to tell him he was beautiful, but that would make him mad, and I didn’t want a mad Ari today. He was already embarrassed, looking away from me and blushing, which made me blush, too.

“So you’re really going to be an artist?” he asked finally.

“Absolutely,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure. “You don’t believe me?”

“I need evidence.”

There was no way I was showing him my sketchbook. I sat down in his rocking chair.

“You still look sick,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“Maybe it’s your dreams,” I prompted.

“Maybe.” He didn’t want to talk, so I decided I would.

“When I was little, I used to wake up thinking that the world was ending. I’d get up and look in the mirror and my eyes were sad.”

“You mean like mine.”

“Yeah.”

“My eyes are always sad.”

“The world isn’t ending, Ari,” I said.

“Don’t be an asshole. Of course it’s not ending.”

“Then don’t be sad.” We both knew it wasn’t that simple.

“Sad, sad, sad,” he said.

“Sad, sad, sad,” I said.

And then we were laughing again, and, like always, everything became okay again. He looked stronger when he laughed.

“I want to draw you,” I said again.

“Can I stop you?”

He knew he couldn’t. I gave him the book and leaned back in the chair, scanning the lighting and his room and studying his face. He kept glancing up at me nervously.

“Make me look good,” he said.

I couldn’t make him look bad if I tried.

“Read,” I instructed. “Just read.”

He still looked anxious. For some reason, I felt nervous, too. It was another invitation to stare at Ari, to scan him carefully, another line crossed. I didn’t want my drawing to be anxious, so I sketched the chair instead. Quick strokes and shades, and I tried to draw the light streaming through the window. Ari looked like he needed light.

I turned back to him when I was sure he was into the book, studying him carefully. I sketched out every line, the curves of his fingers and his thoughtful eyes.

His eyes. They weren’t so sad, after all. They were deep, like they belonged to an older person, but they weren’t all that sad. They would still light up sometimes. They would shine when he smiled.

I think maybe Ari didn’t always see all the happiness he had. He saw clouds and assumed it was night instead of waiting a few seconds and letting the sun come out. I tried to draw that light, make it shine through his eyes.

I finished the first sketch and started a second, this one of just his face. Drawing the details of his face meant a lot of staring, taking in every detail. I stopped for a moment to study his lips. He would pull the bottom one between his teeth sometimes while he read.

He really was beautiful. My stomach felt sort of nervous again when I thought about it, but I couldn’t draw him and not notice. His eyes and his lips and his messy dark hair were quietly captivating. He was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

I thought about Ari’s personality, trying to capture all that beauty in the charcoal. I thought about how, when you talked to him, he made you feel like you were the only person in the room worth listening to.

And, at some point between when I sketched the first lines and when I finished the drawing, I decided I’d like to kiss him.

I wasn’t too surprised to find that thought in my head. How could someone spend half an hour studying and sketching Aristotle Mendoza and _not_ want to kiss him? It felt like the most natural thing in the world to want to do. His lips looked so soft. He would probably taste like chlorine and coffee.

In that moment, I couldn’t remember if I’d ever realized the guy thing before. The liking guys thing. I wondered what I would’ve said if someone had asked me that morning whether or not I liked guys.

I didn’t know what to do with that. I mean, I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to walk over and pull the book out of Ari’s hands so he could hold mine and kiss him. But if I tried, Ari would…

I didn’t know what Ari would do. Probably something bad.

So I kept sketching. He fell asleep after a bit, so I sketched him sleeping, and he was still beautiful.

I finished a sketch and decided that watching Ari sleep for too long would be a little too creepy, especially given the thoughts that had been running through my head for the last few minutes, so I took out my chair sketch to leave for him. I thought about leaving a sketch of him, but it seemed like that would give something away. There was too much love in those pencil strokes for Ari not to notice it. The chair seemed safe, though.

I scribbled a note to Ari on a piece of notebook paper I found on his desk.

_Ari,_

_I hope you like the sketch of your chair. I’ll show you the rest someday, I promise. There’s too much in them to show you just now. But Ari, you’re beautiful. I hope you feel better soon._

_Love,_

_Dante_

And then I read over the note and, as much as I hated the idea of lying to Ari, I changed my mind and tore off the top part of the paper with the writing on it. I couldn’t tell him this much. It was still too far beyond friendly. I rewrote a new note on the rest of the paper.

_Ari,_

_I hope you like the sketch of your chair. I miss you at the pool. The lifeguards are jerks._

_Dante._

Much less honest.

Much safer.

I left the book, the second note, and the sketch, and I went out without waking him up or saying goodbye to his parents.

It was raining outside while I walked home, and I thought about the feeling of wet pavement and puddles under bare feet. I thought about myself. I thought about Ari. I thought about myself and Ari, the combination.

I couldn’t kiss him. Realistically, practically, I knew that, but logic didn't seem to apply to anything I was feeling. Just because I knew I couldn't didn’t mean I didn’t want to. It didn’t mean I didn’t think about it while I walked home in the rain. But Ari was, above everything else, my best friend. Even if I had to bend my policy of brutal honesty, I couldn’t kiss him, or even tell him I wanted to kiss him. Being Ari’s best friend ranked higher on my list of priorities than total honesty.

I got home and went inside, and I didn’t change into dry clothes or anything, just sat in my chair and let the water run down my skin.

I guess this revelation should’ve been big, something to analyze and think about. I just let my mind drift to Ari, like it always had.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! So I decided to try rewriting a few scenes from the book from Dante's point of view, and this was the first thing that came to mind. I have a couple more planned out, so this series will update soon (hopefully). 
> 
> Comments and kudos make me beyond happy, and you can also hit me up @simon-snowman on tumblr. If you have any suggestions for scenes to rewrite from Dante's pov, please please please tell me in the comments and I 100% promise I'll write them!


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